by John Norman
I entered the apartment garage.
I found the car keys in my handbag and gave them hurriedly, smiling, to the attendant.
"Is anything wrong, Miss Brinton?" he asked.
"No, no," I said.
Even he seemed to look at me.
"Please hurry!" I begged him.
He quickly touched his cap and turned away.
I waited, it seemed for years. I counted the beatings of my heart.
Then the car, small, purring, in perfect tune, a customized Maserati, whipped to the curb, and the attendant stepped out.
I thrust a bill in his hand.
"Thank you," he said.
He seemed concerned, deferential. He touched his cap. He held open the door.
I blushed, and thrust past him, throwing my suitcase and handbag into the car.
I climbed behind the wheel, and he closed the door.
He leaned over me. "Are you well, Miss Brinton?" he asked.
He seemed too close to me.
"Yes! Yes!" I said and threw the car into gear and burned forward, only to stop with a shriek of rubber, skidding some ten feet.
With the electric switch he raised the door for me, and I drove out into the swift traffic, out into the hot August night.
Even though the night was hot the air rushing past me, pulling at my hair, refreshed me.
I had done well.
I had escaped!
I drove past a policeman and was almost going to stop, that he might help me, protect me.
But how did I know? Others had worn the uniforms of the police. And he might think I was insane, mad. And I might be detained in the city. Where they were. They might be waiting for me. I did not know who they were. I was not even clear what they wanted. They could be anywhere. Now I must escape, escape, escape!
But the air invigorated me. I had escaped! I darted about in traffic, swiftly, free. Other cars would sometimes slam on their brakes. They would honk their horns. I threw back my head and laughed.
I had soon left the city, crossing the George Washington Bridge, and taking the swift parkways north. In a few minutes I was in Connecticut.
I slipped my wrist watch on my hand, as I drove. When I did so it was one forty-six A.M.
I sang to myself.
Once again I was Elinor Brinton.
It occurred to me that I should not follow the parkways, but seek less traveled roads. I left the parkway at 2:07 A.M. Another car followed me. I thought little of it, but, after some four turns, the car still followed.
Suddenly I became frightened and increased speed. So, too, did the other car.
Then, as I cried out in anguish, I was no longer Elinor Brinton, the one always in control of herself, the rich one, the sophisticated one, she with such exquisite taste and intelligence. I was only a terrified girl, fleeing from what she knew not, a bewildered, confused girl, a terrified girl, one with a mark on her left thigh, a circle of steel locked snugly on her throat.
No, I cried to myself, no. I would be Elinor Brinton! I am she!
Suddenly I began to drive coolly, swiftly, efficiently, brilliantly. If they wanted a chase, they should have it. They would not find Elinor Brinton easy game! Whoever they might be, she was more than a match for them. She was Elinor Brinton, rich, brilliant Elinor Brinton!
For more than forty-five minutes I raced ahead of my pursuer, sometimes increasing my lead, sometimes losing it. Once, grinding and spurring about graveled side roads, they were within forty yards of me, but I increased the lead, yard by yard.
I thrilled to their pursuit, and would elude them!
Finally, when I was more than two hundred yards ahead of them, on a cruelly winding road, I switched off my headlights and drove off the road into some trees. There were many turn-offs on the road, many bends. They would assume I had taken one.
I sat, heart pounding in the Maserati, with the lights off.
In a matter of seconds the following car raced past, skidding about a curve.
I waited for about thirty seconds and then drove back to the road. I drove lights off for several minutes, following the double yellow line in the center of the road by the moonlight. Then, when I came to a more traveled highway, a cemented road, well trafficked, I switched on my lights and continued on my way.
I had outsmarted them.
I continued generally northward. I assumed they would suppose that I had backtracked, and was returning southward. They would not suppose I would continue my journey in the same direction. They would suppose me too intelligent for that. But I was far more intelligent than they, for that was precisely what I would do!
It was now about four ten in the morning. I pulled into a small motel, a set of bungalows, set back from the road. I parked the car behind one of the bungalows, where it could not be seen from the road. No one would expect me to stop at this time. Near the bungalows, north on the highway, there was a diner, which was open. It was almost empty. The red neon lights of the diner loomed in the hot, dark night. I was famished. I had eaten nothing all day. I entered the diner, and sat in one of the booths, where I could not be seen from the highway.
"Sit at the counter," said the boy at the diner. He was alone.
"Menu," I told him.
I had two sandwiches, from cold roast beef, on dry bread, a piece of pie left from the afternoon, and a small carton of chocolate milk.
At another time I might have been disgusted, but tonight I was elated.
Soon I had rented a bungalow for the night, the one behind which I had parked the Maserati.
I put my belongings in the bungalow and locked the door. I was tired, but I sang to myself. I was exceedingly well pleased with how well I had done. The bed looked inviting but I was sweaty, filthy, and I was naturally too fastidious to retire without showering. Besides I wanted to wash.
In the bathroom I examined the mark on my thigh. It infuriated me. But, as I regarded it, in fury, I could not help but be taken by its cursive, graceful insolence. I clenched my fists. The arrogance, that it had been placed on my body! The arrogance, the arrogance! It marked me. But beautifully. I regarded myself in the mirror. I regarded the mark. There was no doubt about it. That mark, somehow, insolently, whether I wished it or not, incredibly enhanced my beauty. I was furious.
Also, incomprehensibly I found that I was curious about the touch of a man. I had never much cared for men. I put the thought angrily from me. I was Elinor Brinton!
Irritably I examined the steel band at my throat. I could not read the inscription on the band, of course. I could not even recognize the alphabet. Indeed, perhaps it was only a cursive design. But something in the spacing and the formation of the figures told me it was not. The lock was small, but heavy. The band fit snugly.
As I looked in the mirror the thought passed through my mind that it, too, like the mark, was not unattractive. It accentuated my softness. And I could not remove it. For an instant I felt helpless, owned, a captive, the property of others. The brief fantasy passed through my mind of myself, in such a band, marked as I was, naked in the arms of a barbarian. I shuddered, frightened. Never before had I felt such a feeling.
I looked away from the mirror.
Tomorrow I would have the steel band removed.
I stepped into the shower and was soon singing.
I had wrapped a towel about my hair, and, dried and refreshed, though tired, and very happy, emerged from the bathroom.
I turned down the sheets on the bed.
I was safe.
My wrist watch, when I had prepared to shower, I had slipped into my handbag. I looked at it. It was four forty-five. I replaced the watch in the handbag.
I reached to pull the tiny chain on the lamp.
I then saw it. On the mirror across the room. At the base of the mirror lay an opened lipstick tube, mine, which had been taken from my handbag, while I had showered. On the mirror itself, drawn in lipstick, was again the mark, the same mark, cursive and graceful, which I wore on my thigh.
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br /> I tore at the phone. It was dead.
The door to the bungalow was unlatched. I had locked it. But the lock had been opened, and even the bolt withdrawn. I ran to the door and relocked it, holding myself against it. I began to sob.
Hysterically I ran to my clothes and dressed.
I might have time. They might have gone away. They might be waiting just outside. I did not know.
I fumbled in the handbag for the car keys.
I ran to the door.
Then, terrified, I feared to touch it. They might be waiting just outside.
I moved to the back of the bungalow. I switched off the light, and stood, terrified, in the darkness. I pulled back the curtains on the rear window of the bungalow. The window was locked. I unlocked it. Noiselessly, to my relief, the window slid upward. I looked outward. No one was in sight. I had time. But they might be in front. Or perhaps they had gone, not expecting me to see the mark on the mirror until morning. No, no, they must be in front.
I crawled out of the window.
The small suitcase I left in the bungalow. I had the handbag, that was important. In it were fifteen thousand dollars and jewelry. Most important, I had the car keys.
Quietly I climbed into the car. I must turn on the ignition, put the car in gear and accelerate before anyone could stop me. The engine was still warm. It would start immediately.
Snarling and spurting the Maserati leaped into life, spitting stones and dust from its rear wheels, whipping about the corner of the bungalow.
I slammed on the brakes at the entrance to the highway and skidded onto the cement turning, and then with a scream of rubber, and the burning smell of it, roared down the highway. I had seen nothing. I switched on the car lights. Some traffic passed me, approaching me.
Nothing seemed to be behind me.
I could not believe that I was safe. But there was no pursuit.
With one hand I fumbled with the buttons on my black, bare-midriff blouse, fastening them. I then found the wrist watch in the handbag and slipped it on my wrist. It was four fifty-one. It was still dark, but it was August and it would be light early.
Abruptly, on an impulse, I turned down a small side road, one of dozens that led from the highway.
There would be no way of knowing which one I had taken.
I had seen no pursuit.
I began to breathe more easily.
My foot eased up on the accelerator.
I glanced into the rear-view mirror. I turned to look. It did not seem to be a car, but there was something, unmistakably, on the road behind me.
For an instant I could not swallow. My mouth felt dry. With difficulty I swallowed.
It was several hundred yards behind me, moving rather slowly. It seemed to have a single light. But the light seemed to light the road beneath it, in a yellow, moving pool of illumination that coursed ahead of it. As it neared, I cried out. It was moving silently. There was no sound of a motor or drive. It was round, black, circular, small, perhaps seven or eight feet in diameter, perhaps five feet in thickness. It was not moving on the road. It was moving above the road.
I switched off the lights on the Maserati and whipped off the road, moving toward some patches of trees in the distance.
The object came to where I had turned off the road, seemed to pause, and then, to my horror, turned gently in my direction, unhurried. In the yellow circle of light I could see the grass of the field, bearing the marks of my tires.
Hysterically I drove across the fields, twisting and turning, accelerating. I would get stuck, and would burn my way free.
Always the object, smoothly, not seeming to hurry, with the yellow light beneath it, approached more closely.
The Maserati struck a large stone. The engine stopped. Wildly I tried to start it again. There was a whine, then another. And then the ignition key only clicked meaninglessly, again and again. Suddenly I was bathed in yellow light and I screamed. It hovered over me. I fled from the car, into the darkness.
The light moved about, but it did not catch me again.
I reached the trees.
In the trees, terrified, I saw the dark disklike shape hover over the Maserati.
A bluish light then seemed, momentarily, to glow from the shape.
The Maserati seemed to shiver, rippling in the bluish light, and then, to my horror, it was gone.
I stood with my back against a tree, my hand before my mouth.
The bluish light then disappeared.
The yellowish light switched on again.
The shape then turned toward me, and began to move slowly in my direction.
I found that I clutched the handbag. Somehow I had seized it, instinctively, in running from the car. It contained my money, jewelry, the butcher knife I had thrust into it before leaving the penthouse. I turned and ran, wildly, through the dark woods. I lost my sandals. My feet were bruised and cut. My blouse was torn. Branches caught at my clothing and hair. A branch lashed my belly and I cried out in pain. Another stung my cheek. I fled. Always the light seemed near, but it did not catch me. I ran from it, forcing my way through the brush and trees, scraped and torn. Time and time again it seemed on the verge of illuminating me, yellow on the trees and brush only feet from me, but it would pass by, or I would turn away from it and run again. I stumbled on through the woods, my feet bleeding, gasping for breath. My hands, my right clutching the handbag, fought the brush and branches that tore at me. I could run no further. I collapsed at the foot of a tree, gasping, each muscle in my body crying out. My legs trembled. My heart pounded.
The light turned my way again.
I scrambled to my feet and ran wildly before it.
Then I saw some small lights beyond the trees and brush some fifty yards in front of me, in a sort of clearing in the woods.
I ran toward them.
I stumbled wildly into the clearing.
"Good evening, Miss Brinton," said a voice.
I stopped, stunned.
At the same time I felt a man's hands close on my arms from behind.
I tried weakly to free myself but could not.
I shut my eyes against the reflection of yellow light from the ground.
"This is point P," said the man. I now recognized his voice. It was that of the larger man who had been in my penthouse in the afternoon. He no longer wore his mask. He was dark haired, dark eyed, handsome. "You have been very troublesome," he said. Then he turned to another man. "Bring Miss Brinton's anklet."
4
The Slave Capsule
The man holding me guided me from where I stood to a place at one side of the clearing. The other man accompanied him, and some others.
The yellow light flashed off, and the dark, disklike shape settled gently to the grass of the clearing.
It was still dark, but could not be long before morning.
In one of the lights I saw a hatch in the top of the disk open. A man crawled out. He wore a black tunic. The other men were dressed conventionally, those I saw then in the clearing.
Some further lights then, gradually, increased in intensity.
I gasped.
In the center of the clearing there was a large, dark shape, much larger than the small one, but not particularly different in design or appearance. It might have been thirty feet in diameter, perhaps some seven or eight feet in thickness. It rested on the grass. It was made of black metal. There were various ports in it, and hatch apertures. A large door, in the side facing me, had been opened. It opened in such a way as to touch the ground and formed a sort of ramp, by means of which the ship could be loaded.
"Who are you? What is this?" I had whispered.
"You may release her," said the man to he who held me.
He did so.
I stood among them.
I could now see there was a truck at another side of the clearing. Boxes of various sizes were being removed from it and being placed in the ship.
"Did you like your collar?" asked the man, pleasantly.
Inadvertently my fingers went to my throat.
He stepped behind me and tore open the top button of the black, bare-midriff blouse. I felt a small key being inserted into the small, heavy lock. The collar sprang open.
"You will doubtless have another," he said. He handed the collar to another man, who took it away.
He regarded me.
I still clutched the handbag.
"Let me go," I whispered. "I have money. Here. And jewelry. And much more. It's yours. Please."
I fumbled in the handbag and thrust the bills and the jewelry into his hands.
He handed the bills and jewelry to another man. He did not want them.
The men now began to bring, not gently, certain large square boxes from the truck, which they placed near the large, open hatch on the ship.
I clutched the handbag in my right hand, half-opened. Sick.
The large man took my left hand and removed the wrist watch from it.
"You will not need this," he said. He handed the watch to another man.
The time was five forty-two.
The men unloading the truck began to unsnap the sides of the large wooden boxes placed near the open hatch on the ship.
I watched with horror.
Inside each, secured with heavy straps and buckles, attached to rings in the box, was a girl. Each was unclothed. Each was unconscious. Each was gagged. Each wore a collar.
The men freed the girls, removing from them the gags and collars, and fastening on the left ankle of each what appeared to be a steel band.
They were then carried, unconscious, into the ship.
I screamed and turned to run. A man clutched at me. My hand tore the butcher knife from my handbag and I slashed wildly at him. He cried out with pain, holding his cut, bloody sleeve. I stumbled and got up to run. But they were all about me, encircling me. I raised the knife to strike at them, wildly. Then it seemed my whole hand and wrist and arm was struck with some fantastic, numbing shock. The knife fell from my fingers. My arm slowly fell, painfully. I could not move my fingers. I sobbed with the pain. One of the men picked up the knife. Another took me by the arm and dragged me back before the large man. I was hunched over, and looked up at him, sobbing, tears in my eyes.